


A Very Private Person

by Trinket2018



Series: Machine Intelligence [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV), Stargate SG-1
Genre: Action/Adventure, Ancient Technology, Artificial Intelligence, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crossover, Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Kidnapping, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 18:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13596207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinket2018/pseuds/Trinket2018
Summary: Dr. Daniel Jackson. Disgraced archeologist, presumed dead a number of times, and MIA on a regular basis… and even harder to track than Finch. Who is this guy, and why did his number come up?





	A Very Private Person

**Author's Note:**

> Daniel, that famed trouble-magnet, must constantly be on the Machine’s list. DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1, the characters and universe are the property of Kawoosh Productions, Showtime/Viacom, Sony/MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions and the Sci-Fi Channel. Person of Interest, the characters and universe are the property of Kilter Productions & Bad Robot. No copyright infringement is intended. I have absolutely no right to be playing with them or their universes. I just gotta. I promise to get nothing out of it but personal satisfaction. Rating: PG-13 for mild profanity, violence. Spoilers: Set a year after the Stargate series end. Reference to ‘SG-1: Ark of Truth’. Set early 2nd season of PoI. Warnings: Danny gets whumped, naturally, but nothing he can’t handle.

Å 

“You are being watched. The government has a secret system, a Machine that spies on you every hour of every day. I designed the Machine to detect acts of terror, but it sees everything, violent crimes involving ordinary people. The government considers these people irrelevant. We don’t. Hunted by the authorities, we work in secret. You’ll never find us. But victim or perpetrator, if your number’s up, we’ll find you.” ~ Harold Finch, ‘admin’ of the Machine.

Å 

John Reese had to admit, this guy spooked him a bit. He’d been following Dr. Daniel Jackson since early that morning, and more than once, John got the distinct impression that the target knew he was being watched. Every once in a while, the man would stop dead in the middle of the teaming New York sidewalks, and look around, three lines appearing between his arched eyebrows in a tiny thoughtful frown. Twice he’d looked straight at John, before shifting his alarming attention elsewhere. John honestly wasn’t sure if he’d been made, or not… He had been following those glances… and he was now certain the man was being followed by others, just as covert as himself. But John doubted if any of those on the good doctor’s tail were aware of him, or had any interest in him. No, all of that attention was directed straight at a disgraced archeologist. 

John’s first reaction upon hearing of the new number had been to laugh. “What, that other chariot of the gods guy? The one who thought aliens built the pyramids?”

“I don’t believe Dr. Jackson ever actually stated that he thought aliens built the pyramids,” Harold Finch corrected mildly as he reviewed the information coming up on his laptop. “As I recall, his thesis was that Ancient Egyptian culture and writing systems were at least twice as old as prevalent theories suggest. His big error was standing up in front of a room full of career academics and telling them everything they believed, and had invested their careers in, was false. He got about the reception you would expect. That ended his own career pretty effectively. Job at the Oriental Institute of Chicago, grants, position on digs, publications, reputation… even the lease on his apartment. And then he dropped out of sight. Less than a month later, he was declared dead by the United States Air Force.”

“The Air Force?” John had been surprised. He was ex-military himself, once a highly decorated officer in Special Forces. “I thought this guy was an archeologist? What was the Air Force doing with an archeologist?”

“He actually holds three PhDs, in archeology, anthropology and linguistics. He speaks upwards of twenty languages, fluently… about half of them dead.”

“Linguist? He was doing translations for them?”

“Well, I imagine he couldn’t get arrested as an archeologist after that last lecture, with his reputation and credibility in tatters. And he is perfectly fluent in many Middle Eastern languages and dialects, given his area of study. He was actually born in Egypt, on his parents’ dig. They were noted Egyptologists themselves.”

“And he was declared dead?”

“For just under two years. Then, in 1997, he is suddenly re-instated as alive, with no explanation offered. Working at the NORAD base in Colorado Springs.”

“Cheyenne Mountain?” John had been surprised all over again. “There’s a lot more going on at Cheyenne than just NORAD operations. At least two top secret organizations that I know of also operate from there. They’ve got a lot of Marines and SFs with top level clearance. That almost certainly means they’re running some pretty dark ops. And that base has a very high casualty rate, from what I remember, for a glorified underground missile silo.”

“I can see that just from Dr. Jackson’s file. He was declared dead again six months after he returned… only a week that time. After that they just started declaring him MIA. A month… three months… a month… and then for over a year, 2002 to 2003. Another month… three… two… one… it’s almost as if he’s making a habit of… popping in and out.”

“And working for the Air Force?”

“Deep Space Radar Telemetry, it says here.”

“Really? Hunh. Pretty transparent cover for something a lot more dangerous. If he’s still in Colorado Springs, why is his number coming up here?”

“I’ve found a commercial airline with his name registered as a passenger… he’s arriving in La Guardia within the hour. You’ll need to hurry if you’re going to meet his plane, Mr. Reese. I’ll continue to try and get what information I can on our elusive archeologist. It might take me some time if I have to get through the DOD firewalls for his record with the Air Force.”

Reese wasn’t sure what he expected of a wacko archeologist with a record of ‘popping in and out’, but the well-dressed, self-assured and handsome man getting off the plane from Denver was not it. Cinnamon-colored hair cut short, vivid blue eyes behind gold-rim glasses, an expensive grey suit that disguised the well-muscled and fit physique, with a predator’s grace to his walk, and a high-guard level of attention to his surroundings. This man had been well trained, in a lot of the skills Reese himself possessed. 

This guy was an archeologist? Maybe, once upon a time… but no longer. 

But if his social security number had come up on Finch’s Machine, it meant that, very shortly, Dr. Daniel Jackson would be involved in a ‘very bad situation’, as either the victim, or the perpetrator. Reese had learned better than to try and out-guess the Machine, but given what little they knew, it seemed like the archeologist was a prime target for kidnapping. Surely, if it was some kind of national security issue, Jackson’s number would have been judged ‘relevant’ by the Machine, and gone to a whole other set of people to be dealt with. 

So, besides watching the good doctor, Reese was very cautiously attempting to identify the others watching the archeologist. It was a tricky thing, because if these people had the kind of connections Reese suspected they did, they were as much, if not more, of a danger to Reese himself. His own safety lay in not attracting that kind of attention from these people. And, if they were Air Force Special Forces from Cheyenne, chances were better than good that at least some of them were people he’d worked with himself in the past. 

Dr. Jackson didn’t have much in the way of luggage – just one black wheeled carry on bag with a laptop case attached. Still, John was able to get close enough to the man to clone his cell phone for Finch. Jackson took three taxis on his journey around the city, stopping at three different internet cafes, where he powered up his laptop, spent a very few minutes on it, then packed up and moved on before even Finch could get a lock on his wireless activity. Then he checked into a walk-in medical clinic, and reported a ‘sliver’ in his thigh that was causing him pain. A tiny shard of metal was removed and put in a pill bottle for him to take with him… he dumped it in the trash outside the clinic, and when John took a peek, he found it was some kind of electronic transponder. He left it where it was. 

“Okay, Finch, I’m not liking the look of this,” John confessed. “It looks to me as if the good doctor is trying to leave the reservation. That might be enough to get his bosses very concerned, depending on what he knows, and who he might tell. But if he’s any kind of threat to national security, shouldn’t his number have been on the other list? Why did he end up on ours?”

“Oh dear… you think the people he’s in danger from are the very people who would receive the Relevant list?”

“Which would only confirm whatever suspicions they have of him. He’s got at least two crack surveillance teams on him now, Finch, not including me. And he knows it. But they had a subcutaneous tracker on him and he just got it removed. So what’s his game?”

“You’d have a better idea of that than I would, Mr. Reese. If it were you, trying to elude your employers, what would your next move be?”

John gave a sigh. “If he’s going to make some kind of move to shake his company, I’m going to need help tracking him. But, until we know more, we can’t use our NYPD assets for this. It’s going to have to be you, Finch.”

“Very well. I’ll meet you at his next destination.”

The fourth taxi of the morning dropped Dr. Jackson at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Well aware that he looked nothing like the Museum’s usual patrons, and so would stick out like a sore thumb, as would any of the other surveillance teams, Reese lingered near the imposing marble pillar façade for Finch to show up. The elegant, cultured, finicky little man would be far more at home inside, and, not surprisingly, he had a member’s card for entry. Reese didn’t even glance at Finch as he passed by, keeping his unobtrusive eye on the other professionals at work. None of them bothered with Finch, either. They weren’t taking pictures or making notes… what were their orders, then, if they weren’t to watch out for any potential contacts? 

Å

Harold had always loved the Met, and as a boy had been particularly drawn to the Ancient Egyptian hall. It wasn’t surprising to find Dr. Jackson, an Egyptologist of some re-known before his disastrous lecture, drawn here too. But for the first time, Harold noted the plaque on one of the side rooms, the Tomb Exhibit. Dedicated to Egyptologist Dr. Melburn Jackson, and Linguist Dr. Claire Ballard Jackson… tragically killed in an accident while setting up the exhibit, according to the memorial plaque. 

“That’s a lot of Jacksons,” Reese commented dryly over their link. “His parents?”

“Yes. The date of the accident is 1980. Dr. Jackson would have been… eight years old?”

“So… is this a walk down memory lane? A bit morbid.”

“Or a gesture of respect, instead of visiting a gravesite.”

Harold wandered from case to case, even as Dr. Jackson was doing. Sometimes the target paused, sometimes smiling and laying a finger on a glass, as if greeting an old friend. But then Harold became aware of another visitor to the lightly-populated hall. 

Dressed casually in jeans, T-shirt and a black leather flying jacket, the visitor was about the same age and size as Dr. Jackson… in fact they looked enough alike to be brothers, although Finch knew Dr. Jackson had no siblings. The straight back, thrown back shoulders and cocky strut betrayed a pilot’s swagger. He sauntered up to Jackson, and although neither acknowledged the other, there was an ease in their stance, both studying the same artifacts, that told of a long-standing association.

From Dr. Jackson’s cell phone, both Finch and Reese could easily overhear the conversation. 

“You ditched your transponder, Sunshine. Why’d you want to go and do that?” His accent was a mellow southern drawl.

“I’ve already had this conversation with Jack, Cameron. But I’ll tell you like I told him. There’s something very wrong going on, and I’m the only one with a shot at finding out what it is. None of the rest of you will even entertain the idea that I might be right. Big surprise there. So… I have to do this myself.”

‘Cameron’ gave a groan and shook his head. “Big mistake. Big, big mistake. What exactly do you think *is* going on, anyway? You sure you haven’t hit your head one too many times? Carrie says severe trauma could easily knock anybody off balance, and lord knows, we’ve all had more than our share of that.”

Dr. Jackson sent a glare at Cameron. “Don’t even *think* about trying to get me to a shrink, Cameron. I’m warning you.”

The man backed up, hands held up in submission. “Hey, no. Not talking about rubber rooms or Mental Health here, Daniel. Swear to God. Just… someone to talk to. That limp of yours that comes and goes. The nightmares. The headaches. Not talking paranoia, we all got that… and with at least two surveillance teams outside waiting in the street, it’s not even paranoia if everyone really is watching you. But… seriously, what is it you think is wrong? I mean… I know what you said at the briefing, but… I gotta tell ya, none of it made much sense. You gotta admit that, at least.”

Dr. Jackson stared fixedly at the case before him. “My wife died.”

“Ye-ah.” Cameron’s mild drawl broadened. “That was a long time ago. Over ten years, right?”

“There’s no record of her death. Or her birth. Or our marriage. No records anywhere, in this country, in Egypt, in any other North African or Middle Eastern state I could find.”

“Well, no… that village of hers was pretty small, right, out in the back of beyond somewhere, nothing but sand and ruins as far as the eye could see? Not surprising they didn’t have even a telephone or anything.”

“The village wasn’t that small. And there’s nowhere that remote anymore. There were ten, fifteen thousand people in that village. There are no records of any of them, or of it.”

“Well, no. There wouldn’t be. Terrorists destroyed it, right? That was a mission, before I climbed on board?”

“In this day and age? It was 2003, Cameron. Fifteen thousand people, a whole village, die in a terrorist attack, and no one knows? There’s no record anywhere? Even the DOD…”

Cameron winced. “*Tell* me you didn’t hack the DOD for this. Or the Pentagon?”

“And the CIA, for that matter. No records. None.”

“Crap. That’s not something wrong, Jackson, it’s people doing their jobs, what they’re told, trying to keep the general public from going ape-shit.”

“Eradicating all the evidence of my life and all the people in it.”

“Is that really what you think?”

Dr. Jackson frowned at an inoffensive piece of pottery. “I’ve been working at Cheyenne for fifteen years, according to the paperwork. But… how clear are your memories, Cam? Of the last few years particularly? Have you talked to Teal’c or Vala lately? There’s something really, really wrong with both of them. They practically wander in a daze, all the time, turn up in corridors, lost, confused… what if… what if Vala doesn’t come from Auckland after all? If Teal’c isn’t Somalian? What if…”

“What if?”

Dr. Jackson shook his head. “No. Never mind. Look, I need a few weeks off, that’s all. I’d be a whole lot happier without the escort, but if they’ll keep their distance, I’ll live with it. They can make all the reports to Jack they want. And when I’m back at Cheyenne, Carolyn can fit me up for a new transponder. Okay? But I need some breathing space to myself. To work things out. Okay?”

Cameron groaned again. “You know the General calls you a trouble magnet, right? Beginning to get what he means. If anything happens to you, anything at all, it’s my butt in a sling.”

“Well, actually, no, it’ll be mine. Don’t sweat it, Cam. If worst comes to worse, get Sam to beam me up.”

“Get Sam to… what?”

“What?”

“Who the hell is Sam?”

“I’m not sure… I don’t think I know any Sam. Why?”

“You said to get Sam to beam you up.” 

“Did I? Hunh. Don’t know what I was thinking there… no transponder.”

“What?”

“What?”

“Look, Jackson… At least tell me what you’re doing in New York City. Why come here?”

“This is where my parents died. Did you know that? In this room. They were setting up the Tomb exhibit. I was standing right here… I remember it so clearly… as if it had just happened… or happened again… and again… I dream about it a lot. I was eight. They were using chains and a winch to lift that heavy cover stone into place, and the chain broke. I saw it happen. I just… it’s a kind of pilgrimage I make every so often. I spend time with the exhibits… I found that alabaster bowl myself, when I was five. They were so proud of me… Coming back here is a way of re-connecting with my roots. Getting back to basics.”

Cameron studied Dr. Jackson, doubt clouding his face. But then he sighed and shrugged in defeat. “Okay. Have it your way. I’ll get one of the teams to stand down, but you gotta promise not to ditch the other. Right? Can’t have you wandering the wilds of New York City without any back-up. Right?”

“Ri-ight,” Jackson drawled with a firm nod. Not exactly the promise Finch would have demanded, but…

Cameron walked out. 

Dr. Jackson stayed for another half hour, then left the Egyptian hall for a set of back stairs, twisting corridors and side exits that Finch bet even the Met curators didn’t know. 

Å

Finch opened one metal security door and found himself in a deserted back alley, blinking in the strong light. He ventured toward the only exit to the street, and from a line of large trash bins, a smiling Dr. Jackson suddenly appeared. 

“Hello,” he offered brightly with a flash of dimples. “My name is Daniel Jackson. And you are…?” He waited patiently for a reply. 

Somewhat stymied at being caught out like this, Finch could only blurt out, “A concerned third party? Dr. Jackson, I have reason to believe your life may be in danger.”

Dr. Jackson frowned, mulling this over, registering the fact that Finch obviously knew his proper title. “Yes, and?”

Finch was at something of a loss. “Well… I thought you might want to be warned.”

Dr. Jackson studied him for a moment, and it made Finch incredibly nervous. As if the archeologist could determine a lot more than Finch was comfortable having anyone know about him. Which, heaven knew, was little enough. 

The younger man was good enough to share some of his conclusions. “You’re not military. You may be a suit, but not one of the crowd I usually encounter, unless it’s something about an overdue expense account. I would have said you were a banker, a lawyer, an accountant… maybe a systems guy… You’re not government either, are you? Which makes you something of an anomaly. Especially if you think I may be in danger and you still get so close to me. Look, there are far more pleasant places to conduct a conversation than a back alley. There’s a nice café around the corner a few steps, and I could really use a coffee. Care to join me?”

“I guess I really don’t have a choice…” Finch granted, his cover already blown. 

“Finch? What are you doing?” The listening John Reese demanded. While not actually a professional, he knew Finch to be a very intelligent man… surely bright enough to know that making contact with the surveillance target was a very bad idea, especially if he attracted the attention of the other teams on the man. 

“Actually, I could use a good cup of tea myself, right now,” Finch confessed, unable to directly reply to his partner, under the circumstances. 

But as they approached the end of the alley, a dark SUV appeared, and several balaclava-adorned men jumped out, aiming odd-looking silver weapons at the two unarmed men.

“Oh crap,” Dr. Jackson groaned before a blue light shot out around them, and Finch went down in a heap. 

“Finch? Finch, you there?” Reese demanded. “What’s going on?”

John had already been on the move when Finch reported their person of interest making for the back of the museum, but he was still too late, arriving on the back side of the building, barely in time to watch the SUV speed away with a squealing of tires. 

And damn it, this was the *second* damned time he had lost his boss, and he didn’t like it one little bit. 

Å

“Finch? Finch? If you can hear me, just stay still, play possum for as long as you can. I’ve got a fix on you and Dr. Jackson, and I’m following the SUV that captured you. I don’t know who these guys are, but they’ve got some pretty weird technology they’re using. They hit the two of you with some kind of taser, and they’re using voice-disguising tech. If they’re being that careful about hiding their identities, then that’s good news… they must intend to let you go when they get whatever they want. I’m guessing at this point that this is either an interrogation of Dr. Jackson, or a bid to extort money from the Air Force or government for his safe return. You just got caught in the grab.”

Finch ached, *everywhere*. It felt like fire ants were still crawling all over his body, every nerve jangled and twitching uncontrollably. But he did as Mr. Reese advised over their ear-wig communications units, recognizing that his best hope lay in seeming the helpless, inoffensive and marginally crippled little man he appeared to be. 

Dr. Jackson was groaning and moving beside him. As Mr. Reese had informed him, they were in the back of an SUV, bound, black bags over their heads, and no doubt under the barrels of more than a few guns. 

“Oh for crying out loud. Jack is going to kill me… You guys aren’t *seriously* kidnapping me, are you? You just couldn’t be that stupid, right?”

“We have need of your services, Dr. Jackson.”

“And, what, you couldn’t just ask me nicely?”

A second kidnapper answered, “No. You are not known for being… cooperative with my associates.”

Finch felt a shiver go through him at that weird bi-furcated sounding voice. The first speaker had sounded normal enough, if flat… this guy must be using the voice-disguising tech Mr. Reese had referred to. It was a seriously disturbing sound. 

“Oh,” Dr. Jackson replied, sounding very flat himself. “You’re the TRUST.”

Their captors made no reply to this, neither denial nor affirmation. Finch knew Mr. Reese would be taking note of all this, and concentrated on keeping still and feigning unconsciousness.

“And, what was the point of grabbing this guy?” So apparently, Jackson was not subjected to the bag over the head.

No one answered that, either. 

“Oh, come on! You want him for leverage, is that it? In case I don’t feel like playing your games? Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t know this guy from a hole in the ground. I met him… if you can even call it that… two minutes before you grabbed us. I don’t even know his name!”

More stubborn silence on the other end… “Oh, for… take a good look at this guy, will you? His suit is a few thousand dollars, his shoes at least a thousand, even his tie has got to be worth a couple of hundred. He’s not military or government, he’s certainly not a mugger, but he’s rich and prominent, and he’s going to be missed pretty much immediately. You can’t afford to make that kind of noise. He doesn’t know me, he didn’t see anything… let him go.”

“You’re lying. He was with you. You were talking. Why?”

“For crying out loud! You really are too stupid to live! I talk to *everybody*! It’s kind of my job.”

“Then why was he with you in that alley?”

“I’ve been kidnapped by total morons. I’ll never live this down, I know it. Look, he’s a neat, manicured, fastidious little man in a suit, he was stalking me in a museum, and followed me out the back way. Draw your own conclusions.”

Confusion kept Finch from giving himself away when he heard Reese choking over their comm. “Well,” the other man confessed in tones of amazement, “that isn’t the way I would have gone, but… if it works… get hold of yourself Finch, don’t let on you’re awake, because this is going to be a shock...”

“According to Jack, half the universe wants inside my pants, okay?” Dr. Jackson protested, sounding highly aggrieved. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s hit on me in a museum. Not by a long shot. Libraries are even worse. And no, I’m not gay. I just happen to like museums and libraries, so sue me.”

Okay, yes, that was a shock. Not the fact that Dr. Jackson was straight, just… Finch could feel a deep flush flood through him. Lucky, really, that the bag would hide his heated cheeks. Mortified, he realized Mr. Reese would be teasing him forever about this. Although, granted, he did appreciate Dr. Jackson’s efforts to get him out of this predicament, however embarrassing the method. 

“So, this poor guy may have broken gaydar and poor taste, not to mention the worst timing ever, but that’s all. Just let him go.”

There was a thoughtful silence. Then the weird-voiced man said, “No, I think on the whole he could be useful in keeping you under control, whatever your relationship… or even lack of one.”

“You’re going to regret that decision. Deeply. Believe me. He’s going to have a lot of powerful friends, and you are going to find yourselves in a world of hurt.”

“With any luck, that will not be an issue for long.”

“This translation you want me for… short, is it?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

“I’m less than a block away, Finch,” Mr. Reese’s quiet, determined voice came over the comm, and Finch found himself enormously reassured. He knew very well what his impressive partner was capable of. Dr. Jackson’s warnings to their captors could yet prove prophetic. “Just hang tight, and I’ll get you both out of this.”

Å

The SUV slowed and turned and rumbled over a curb of some kind, then up some kind of ramp, and then sound began to echo, now being bounced off confining walls. They were inside. Finch found himself abruptly shaken and realized his possum act was over.

He was frog marched by several very large men until they pulled him short, then sat him down in a hard wooden chair. The bag was pulled from his head, and he blinked in the sudden light, squinting around him at the barren interior of a nondescript warehouse. The echoing space was three or four stories tall, rows of glass windows, some broken out, all along the top of the walls, girders far above supporting cranes and block-and-tackle equipment. The SUV was parked over to one side, just inside a big set of doors, now shut tight. 

Dr. Jackson had been shoved into a chair beside him, and several men stood around them looking grim and impatient. Most, about half a dozen standing in a rough circle around them at a remove, could be easily identified as ‘hired muscle’. Even more such figures lurked in the shadows further back, patrolling. Three more men, middle-aged, shorter and stooped, with glasses and bald pates, were clad in white lab coats, and Finch himself would not have looked out of place among them in a similar frock covering. And then there was one, far better dressed and with the unmistakable air of arrogant and confident command, who was probably the boss. He stepped to one side and gestured to a large box in the centre of the debris-strewn floor. There were a few cables attached to it, leading to the only other contents of the warehouse, a collection of tables and desks piled with electronic equipment and a few laptops. It was the laptops that busied the three white-coated technicians, who spared the occasional frightened glance over their shoulders at their employer. 

“This is what you’re here for,” the Boss declared, his the voice with the eerie bifurcated tone… but Finch couldn’t make out how he was getting the effect. He didn’t appear to be wearing any kind of voice box on his neck, although it could have been hidden under his tie… “Translate this.”

Dr. Jackson blinked, then stared at the box. It was cube-shaped, about three feet to a side, with carved figures on each side, and some kind of red crystal dome on top. Finch thought it might be carved of dark stone… 

The archeologist stood, even with his hands bound by plastic zip-ties behind him, and approached the box. When he was near enough he would have reached out to touch it, but had clearly forgotten about his bindings. He glared annoyed at his captors, and waited for them to cut the plastic.

When he could touch, he ran sensitive fingers over the surface, eyes wide with wonder. 

“What is this?”

“You should know. You found it.”

Shock was clear on his face as he turned to the Boss. “I found it?”

“You’ve forgotten?”

“I… how did you get it?”

“We stole it, of course. From Area 51. It’s brain-washing technology.”

“It’s… what? This thing is clearly ancient. As in, very, very old. I have no way to tell how old, but some of these symbols are related to Etruscan, a precursor to Latin, and it ceased to be a living language three thousand years ago. So… what kind of technology could it possibly be?”

“The device is actually over seven million years old, according to our tests.”

“Well, your tests are for shit then. This is clearly a man-made object, of some kind of… soft, workable stone. Three million years ago there was no one human around to make it. And if they could… did you say brain-washing?”

“It’s called the Ark of Truth. Your team found it, and used it to defeat a terrorist organization called the Ori. We… acquired it, thinking we might find any number of uses for it. But our first attempt did something… unexpected. Now we need you to undo it.”

Dr. Jackson straightened from his study to turn and stare at the Boss. “You took an unknown artifact of unknown background, inscribed with symbols you couldn’t decipher, and messed with it to… and you expect me to fix your screw up? What is it you think it did to you?”

The Boss glowered with equal malice at the box, and at Dr. Jackson. And then suddenly, weirdly, horrifyingly, his eyes flashed with a bright light! They glowed… from within! Finch couldn’t stop himself from shuddering, even as Dr. Jackson stiffened at the sight. 

“It made us forget who we are! It… it made me forget who I am, where I’m from, what I’m doing here… and… there are other side effects. Like this odd voice. A few other… things. Now, you are the one who operated this device before, you can operate it again, and put things back as they were. There’s a journal of lab notes over there on the desk to tell you what we did before our memories were altered, and these… gentlemen to assist you. Now… get to work, Dr. Jackson.”

“What, without my references? My resources?”

“Everything you should need is right there on those laptops. And… don’t bother trying to use them to send out a message or cry for help. They are disabled from internet contact.”

“I’m not all that good with computers…”

Finch, intrigued by all this beyond his usually formidable capacity for self-preservation, piped up at this point, “As it happens… I *am* good with computers. Perhaps I could assist?”

“Damn it, Finch, shut up!” Reese growled out over the link. “I’ve found the warehouse and I’m looking for a covert way in, but I need you to keep a low profile here! Whoever these kidnappers are, they’re clearly crazy, so the last thing you want to do is attract their attention. I thought you had more sense.”

And as if that weren’t bad enough, Dr. Jackson had also rounded on him, looking genuinely angry. 

“Have you any idea how *stupid* that was, Mr. Whoever-the-hell you are? These people are members of the TRUST, an international conspiracy of terrorists and technology thieves, with the avowed aim to take over the World, starting with the United States. They don’t have a political, religious or ideological agenda… they’re just greedy, power-hungry bastards, and everyone else will be nothing more than slaves if they ever get their way. So the last thing I want to do is *help* them do anything with a device they say can brainwash people!” With that curt assessment, he rounded back on the Boss. “So, what, you guys wanted to get this thing to convince the world it would be better off with you in charge, is that it?”

The Boss faced Dr. Jackson’s sneer of contempt with resignation. “That would have been the idea, yes. But it was apparently named the ‘Ark of Truth’ with reason… we had to do some considerable work to override its programming and fail-safes. So the nearest we could get for our first test was to convince everyone that there are no such things as aliens.”

“Well of *course* there are no such things as aliens…” Dr. Jackson and Finch said in perfect unison, as did Mr. Reese over the comm link. And all three stopped as they realised what had just happened.

After a moment of silence, Dr. Jackson slowly mused, “Of course, with an infinite universe, and we’ve only just begun to investigate our little, tiny corner of one solar system, and a large proportion of nearby stars that we have already found to have planets in orbit… According to the Drake Equation, there’s a mathematical formula for calculating how many planets are likely to evolve life… we have a saying in archeology. Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. So a confirmed belief that there are no such things as aliens is just that… a belief… one that was forced on us by this device?”

“So… it would appear.”

“This device you stole from Area 51, Groom Lake, sometimes known as Shadowland, a top secret military base in Nevada, which was rumoured by the ignorant, until about a month ago, to contain stashes of alien artifacts. This device that I supposedly found, but I don’t remember the details of it. A manufactured artifact, supposedly millions of years old, with technology light years beyond any we know of. And I found it, on my team, doing my job, which I have been having a very hard time remembering lately. Hmm.”

Mr. Reese sound equally bemused when he added, “And our Dr. Jackson lost his job and credibility fifteen years ago, claiming aliens built the pyramids and Ancient Egyptian culture. And he was almost immediately snapped up for a top secret project out of Cheyenne Mountain, where he… pops in and out on a regular basis. Finch, I think you better keep right away from that thing, whatever the hell it is.” 

But the Boss had already nodded at one of his henchman to release Finch’s hands, and the little man was already making his halting way to the array of laptops hooked to the device, shouldering past the technicians. He quickly oriented himself with the operating systems, surfed through a few directories, (finding a few back-doors and creating a few more for himself along the way, to ensure he had the access required to investigate this criminal group in more detail at some more convenient later date) and found the hard source code for what they were attempting to do.

“Oh my. You really shouldn’t have done this,” Finch advised. 

“It was a simple enough command,” the Boss insisted, somewhat defensively.

“Yes, and that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Finch declared. “One simple, black-and-white statement that could have an infinite number of ramifications. The simplest lie cannot stand on its own, in isolation. There’s a domino effect of other lies that would have to be given to support the first lie, an ever-expanding circle of false-hoods, or the first simply won’t hold.” 

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive,” Dr. Jackson quoted softly. “You realise what you’ve done here? Even if this… device, is capable of brainwashing people, if it was designed to… I don’t know, broadcast the truth, somehow, as long as it *was* actually the truth, then every fact, every memory, all physical evidence, would support what everyone was forced to accept as truth. So no problem. But the moment you broadcast something, some statement that is *not* the truth, then any fact, memory, every piece of evidence that does *not* support that statement will set up a dissonance in your victims. Nothing will agree with anything else, nothing will connect properly at the corners. Do they accept the evidence of their senses, their own common sense, or the lie they’ve been forced to believe? And what do they do with what’s left in contradiction to that? Tell themselves it’s a lie, a conspiracy, a fake, an illusion, their imaginations, or at worst, madness?” 

Finch stood and stared at the archeologist, frankly impressed by the man’s powers of communication, even as the damning indictment of the situation made him shudder. 

“And no,” Dr. Jackson swept on, with irresistible inevitability, “simply broadcasting the opposite statement will not help any. So now we force everyone to suddenly believe aliens *do* exist? Can you just imagine the chaos that would cause, world-wide? Religions, cultures, institutions would crumble. People hiding, cowering under their beds in fear, or rebelling in denial. Stockpiling weapons and food against some imagined invasion. I’ve seen think-tank studies conducted to determine what would happen in the impossible event that aliens suddenly appeared in ships, in orbit over Earth, or if there was suddenly irrefutable evidence, and in almost every case, rioting, wars, collapsing governments, an economy shot to hell, a world on the brink of decimation, is the result. And that’s the best case, where the alien visitors are relatively benign, and have no plans to attack or take over. Do you seriously want to court that? When it would leave you nothing to rule over?”

The Boss fumed over these unpleasant options, frowning at the device and Dr. Jackson, as if he could blame either one for his predicament.

“It may not be possible in any case,” Finch offered helpfully. He had noted that there seemed to be fewer balaclava-clad men loitering about the place, even if he hadn’t heard any betraying thuds, grunts or groans. It seemed to Finch that the more distracted the remainder were, focused on what he and Dr. Jackson were saying, the more room Mr. Reese would have to work. So he went on, “I’ve seen the power requirements for your first… experiment, and the energy levels you’ve been monitoring on the device, and I don’t believe you have enough power left for another activation. From the notes, I don’t believe the device will operate at all with an insufficient charge.”

The Boss waved that away. “We have a generator for that.”

Finch blinked. “With a compatible power source? Really?”

One of the little technicians hurried forward and silently pointed out something on a screen in front of him.

“Oh. I see. Have you run the numbers on this? Because it doesn’t look all that compatible to me, and after you use transformers and resistors to alter the signature, there still won’t be enough charge left for an activation, and you risk blowing out and frying whatever circuitry the device is using.”

The Boss became more focussed on his trembling techy minions. “Oh really? They assured me that the generator would suffice.”

Finch glanced at the three nervous men, and could only click his tongue. “Yes, well, perhaps they were… overly optimistic about their abilities. But I think there’s at least a month of serious experimentation and simulation work required before you dare try it out on the actual device, because to power it you’ll need to by-pass the power crystal entirely and feed energy straight into the device itself, with all the risks that will entail. The fact of the matter is, the power crystal in the device was never designed to be… re-charged. It was clearly made for a one-time-only use. Whoever built the device clearly realised just how dangerous it would be in the… wrong hands.”

And Finch pointedly did not twist in his chair to glare at the Boss. But Dr. Jackson, aggravation making him tactless, blurted out, “Like you and your TRUST buddies, for instance.” 

Å

The sentries on the warehouse didn’t seem all that large or formidable to Reese, but they were a lot stronger then they appeared, and much harder to put down silently. But John had recently encountered a mountain of a man, an Aryan Pride bastard, even he had trouble pacifying, and so he had since taken precautions against a repeat experience. He had always been a great believer in proportional response. In this case, it was a set of brass knuckles. Even with these, the sentries seemed oddly resistant to persuasion. He was lucky neither of the pair had managed to contact anyone inside. 

Now fore-warned of the capabilities of the minions he faced, John was far more cautious in ambushing those inside the warehouse. Eventually he would have to get out his very large guns, but with Finch and Dr. Jackson as hostages, he was going to have to be careful. Once inside, he quickly scoped out the numbers of opponents, their locations, and then, John Reese exploded into action. 

It took a little over two minutes to neutralize the competition. One of them had pulled out one of those strange silver tasers, but Reese had shot it out of his hand before he could arm it. Even with large holes blown into their legs and arms and shoulders, these guys were strangely resilient. In moments, however, all that were left were the cowering techies and the Boss, just standing there and staring. The Boss pulled another taser… and went down in a blue cloud of energy. Dr. Jackson held the thrown taser, and quickly turned on the techies to give each of them one shot of blue electrical shock. 

“What the hell is that thing?” Reese demanded, quickly kicking away the one the Boss had held, and picking it up. 

Dr. Jackson blinked at all the bodies, then at the weapon in his hand, and said, “I think it’s called a zat. Do I know you?”

“Call me John,” Reese offered. “My friend here seems to like the name Harold, this week.”

“Ah,” Jackson nodded, admirably quick on the up-take. He dived for the Boss, searching his pockets. “I’m afraid proper thanks are going to have to wait for a more opportune time. These guys aren’t going to stay down for long.”

“Relax. Judging by your response time, we’ve got a half hour before they wake up.”

“Yeah, well,” Dr. Jackson drawled, coming up with a set of keys and using the button to activate the Boss’s SUV parked nearby, “at the risk of making you doubt my sanity, I don’t think these guys are… human. Can you help me get this box loaded in the SUV? Thanks. And Harold, were you just blowing smoke up these guys asses, good job by the way, or do you actually know what you’re doing?”

“I’m very good with computers, actually.”

“Okay. Then pack up whatever of this stuff you need and load it on the SUV. Do you know a place where we can take it and not be… interrupted?”

“I know of several.” 

“Good. Pick one.”

“What exactly are we going to be doing?” John asked curiously as he followed Dr. Jackson to another odd looking piece of equipment, trailing cables and transformers, that had lighted bits and generated a low annoying buzz, until the good Doctor reached deftly for a switch he obviously knew was there, and turned it off.

“We’re going to figure out exactly what these idiots did, undo it, and then destroy this thing.”

“Destroy it!” Finch yelped, eyes wide. “This is proof of… something incredible. It can vindicate all of your theories on the age of human culture. You could be reinstated in academia, have your life back… you don’t want all that?”

“If I found this thing and turned it over to the government for some reason… I don’t know what I was thinking. They couldn’t keep it safe, out of the worst possible hands. They obviously can’t be trusted with something of such power. No one can.”

As John helped load the SUV he said, “What about these guys? We just leave them here? Or give them another dose of zat taser?”

“No, not that. One shot stuns, two shots kills. Three disintegrates. I think we want to leave them for the authorities.”

Dr. Jackson thought a second. One or two were already groaning. He returned to his pilfering of the Boss and his pockets, and came up with a cell phone. “You have an app to dial a number remotely with a time delay, deliver a message?”

“As it happens, I do,” Finch replied and John smiled wryly at his ingenious partner. The little man was already delivering the app to the Boss’s cell. Finch showed him how to key in the number to be dialed, how to record the message, and set a two minute delay. “It’ll leave the line open to be traced.”

“Good.” Dr. Jackson recorded a brief message. “Hey, Jack. I’ve left you a present, a nest of TRUST operatives. Some of them might be getting feisty by the time you get this, so be careful when you charge in. One Boss, three techs, six muscle-”

John amended, “Four more outside.”

“Sorry, ten muscle. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be in touch.”

He tossed the cell on the Boss, and the three men bundled into the SUV, Reese at the wheel. As they quickly made their way out of the warehouse, roaring away into the anonymity of city traffic, Dr. Jackson blew out a breath of relief. 

“Okay, thanks for the rescue. Really. Those guys are very bad men. Stupidity and greed just makes them more dangerous.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” Finch agreed dryly, passing an address to Reese. 

“So, who is ‘Jack’?” John asked.

“Lt. General Jack O’Neill, HomeWorld Security. He’ll know what to do.”

“Jack O’Neill…” John mused. “I knew a Major O’Neill, about twenty years back, Air Force Special Forces. He was something of a legend in certain circles.”

In the back seat, leaning wearily against the back rest, taking off his glasses to give them a slow wipe, Dr. Jackson flashed a smile with twinkling blue eyes and peeking dimples. Regarding him in the rear view mirror, John could only observe that Jack’s estimate of half the universe wanting in the man’s pants was wrong… it was probably closer to two thirds, or even three quarters. 

“That sounds like Jack, all right. Legendary.”

“So. I’m guessing that this Arc of Truth in the back actually did something to us… made us all believe that aliens don’t exist… when, I’m thinking, they really do? And some of them have weird voices and their eyes flash?”

“And run an international cartel of terrorists and technology thieves, plotting to take over the world,” Finch added.

“That’s about the size of it. I think they must have turned it on about a month ago. That’s when I started to have some major memory issues, and friends of mine began behaving oddly… but I seem to be the only one who noticed anything was wrong. And when I tried to point it out to people… well. I’ve always been a bit of a flake. It’s hard for them to take my wilder theories seriously without solid proof. A-and… that’s as much as I think I better tell you. For your own good, if nothing else.”

“We understand, better than you may think,” Finch assured the archeologist.

Å

As the last of the TRUST conspirators were loaded in the transport and carted away by teams of extremely competent and motivated SFs, Lt. General Jonathan ‘Jack’ O’Neill (with two ‘L’s) fixed Colonel Cameron Mitchell with a gimlet stare. “You let him go, Colonel. You should know better by now, you were warned, repeatedly, and still you let him go off on his own. Straight into a nest of TRUST bastards. I’m *very* disappointed.”

Cameron rubbed his temples. “I swear, General, sir, it seemed like a good idea at the time. To let him have his head. And you gotta admit, he was on to something.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Daniel. The flakier the theory, the more likely he is to be right… in the teeth of *all* probability.”

One of the techs in the clean-up crew going over what little debris had been left in the warehouse lifted his head and reported, “Traces of naquadah, sir.” 

“Yeah, I figured,” Jack grumbled. “Can we track that stuff? Use it to trace where Daniel and his new buddies went?”

The tech stared, his eyes widening like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Jack had been seeing that expression a lot over the past month… and knew suddenly that, whatever was suddenly wrong with everyone he knew, it was probably going to turn out to be down to Daniel’s warnings, and whatever slimy moves this little cabal of TRUST had been up to, here in their little abandoned lab.

And Daniel had walked off with all the toys, and a couple of new friends who seemed to have dropped out of the clear blue sky.

His archeologist had always been good at making friends and influencing people. Beings. 

Whatever.

“I want you to give all those prisoners complete physicals, including X-ray and MRI. And God help you if you lose them!”

Because if Daniel was right, and wasn’t the annoying thorn in his side always right, then these guys wouldn’t be run-of-the-mill terrorists. They’d be something that he, and no one else on the planet, apparently, were allowed to believe exist. 

Å

Reese knew that Finch owned property all over the city, and had any number of bolt-holes and safe-houses for use in their work. This building, with an underground garage and three floors of empty offices above, was one he hadn’t used before now. They carted their equipment to the top floor, an open-concept office with windows on all sides, fitted up to suit any kind of IT operation, with numerous receptacles for power and internet connectivity. All it needed was a maze of baffle walls to form cubes, with desks, chairs and computers. At present the only furniture was a few plain desks and roller chairs. 

Jackson and Reese quickly set up the laptops and Jackson went over the files Finch brought up for him on the history and research on the Arc of Truth, and details on the TRUST experiment. 

Jackson blinked. “I think… I think I’m beginning to remember some things. Obviously, the effect of the device fades in the face of contradictory evidence. But I’m still finding it hard to… to accept what I *know* is the truth. For instance, I *know* this device wasn’t found on Earth. And the Ori, beings of incredible power, made of pure energy, existing, at least partially, on… another plane of existence, aren’t human. Not Earth human, anyway, and not for a very long time. They made ‘lesser beings’ think they were gods, made them worship them, and soaked up energy from their prayers and deaths. And they commanded the faithful to come here, to the Milky Way Galaxy to convert everyone they could to Origin, and kill everyone who resisted. Even after the Ori… were… gone… somehow, I’m really not clear yet on the details there… their mortal armies of the faithful continued their wars. So we went to get the Arc of Truth, to… de-program them. Convince them that the Ori weren’t gods, weren’t worthy of worship and loyalty. So they’d go home and leave us all in peace.”

“And… you did this?” Reese prompted doubtfully.

“I… I think I must have. But my bosses took control of the Arc after that… I argued with them, told them it was too dangerous to mess with… well, obviously! I mean… look at what’s happened! Anyway, I thought they must have crated it up, like that final scene in ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’… one crate in a warehouse full of stuff, lost forever in the paperwork of top secret security. But the TRUST have agents and moles everywhere, in the government, in business and other institutions… probably at Area 51, come to that.”

“So, do you know how this thing works?” Reese asked, taking a wary peek inside the open box at the curiously alien collection of crystals and hardware inside.

“We needed a conduit, from one mind in direct contact with the Arc field, to all other minds connected to it. The Ori Priors had such connections, telepathic, augmented by these… staffs of power they held. Convert one with the Arc, and all others in the chain would feel the effects. But ordinary humans aren’t connected like that, so I don’t know how the TRUST managed to disseminate the information…”

“There are other means of connection,” Finch assured them. “Not telepathic, but if the device were linked with television, telephones, the internet… it could have a similar effect as direct contact, through the use of subliminal messages. It appears from their notes that they linked the device through the internet. They spread the effect out along the distributed nodes like a virus.” 

“That wouldn’t convert everyone,” Dr. Jackson objected. “Not everyone has computers or access to the internet.”

“But most people do, and how many, who, would they bother to convert? Those without access wouldn’t be on their target list in any case, would they? Government, scientists, the military, people in positions of power world-wide… they certainly would be effected. Why would they care about a few isolated tribes in remote corners of the Amazon?”

Dr. Jackson shared a conspiratorial grin with Reese over Finch’s head. Of course Finch would equate computer illiteracy with a very small, backward and negligible sub-set of humanity. 

Daniel had one laptop open on a file containing the translations from the Arc itself, and went about trying to verify it all. Apparently, he was more than just fluent with the language of the ‘Alterans’ who built the Arc… it was almost like a native tongue in his mind. He corrected a few minor mistakes in his own original translations, then began practically re-writing all that had been done after he last saw the device. While the translation the TRUST had been working from had been good enough for them to actually re-wire and turn it on, they had seriously mis-judged a lot of the device design and operation. 

Meanwhile, Finch was going over the schematics for the actual circuitry, and the power requirements. It did need massive infusions of energy, and the crystal in the lid was far too depleted from the previous employments of the Arc to completely fuel another. And it hadn’t been designed to be re-charged. He had been correct in that. 

“According to the research notes,” Daniel informed them, “I speculated that the device was built as a last-ditch desperation move when the schism developed between the two camps, the Ori and the Alterans – the Others. 

“The Ori felt their highly evolved state made it okay for them to subjugate others, enslave them, control them, claim to be gods. They thought their superior technology made them a better judge of the Greater Good, but in reality, it was just their own good they were thinking of.

“The Others disagreed, felt that such deception was wrong, beneath contempt, and that all sentient beings deserved Free Will, to determine their own fates. 

“With such a divide between them, it soon erupted into civil war, with the Alterans overwhelmed by superior numbers and the slave armies of the Ori faithful. But when one of their scientists came up with the Arc, to force the deceived faithful to accept the truth, that the Ori were not gods and were unworthy of worship, the other Alterans objected to its use, seeing it as unethical intervention. If an argument with truth on its side can’t win by its own merits, then what good was it? It also violated all of their beliefs on the value of absolute Free Will. So the Arc was buried, supposed to be destroyed, and the Alterans ran away, to hide from the Ori and live as they chose. And that brought them here, to the Milky Way, and to Earth.”

John Reese had made several circuits of the office, checked out all approaches and emergency exits, tied a spare laptop into the building security system to keep watch on his monitor, and now sat at a desk, feeling a bit bored and useless while the geeks went about their work. 

“And when the Ori finally found us, you got hold of the Arc and just… turned it on?” he guessed. “Nice work, Dr. Jackson. I take it you didn’t have any ethical reservations?”

“To convince a bunch of deluded people that their false gods were lying to them, sending them to fight, kill, die, using them for their own selfish power-mad purposes? Uh, no. We were pretty desperate too, and we didn’t have the luxury of moving everyone to a new galaxy for safety, however temporary. And we didn’t have the power of the Alterans to rely on, either. Not to mention the timing issue. We were days away from a major Ori invasion at the time.”

“So… you saved the planet? The galaxy?”

Dr. Jackson sent a suspicious look at John, as if expecting he was being mocked. Then he gave that flashing smile. “Two galaxies, actually. The Ori galaxy is now free and at peace, too.”

“Like I said. Good work.”

“Of course, you can never tell anyone about any of this. Either of you. Even if we get this mess with the Arc straightened out, no one is ever going to believe it anyway. That a four-eyed geek, an archeologist and linguist, has saved the planet. And, ah, I hope you’ve noticed… I haven’t asked either of you how you knew I was in trouble in the first place.”

“And we appreciate your reticence, Dr. Jackson,” Finch assured him. “All right, I think I have the power requirement numbers here… and even if we suck out the entire national grid, shutting down everything in the continental United States, we’ll still barely be able to get this thing charged up for one application. Even if we knew what to tell it.”

“Oh, I know what we’re going to program it to believe,” Dr. Jackson declared, off-hand. “And this little generator we brought with us will be able to handle it. It’s a naquadah generator. Fuelled by a crystalline mineral called naquadah… not… um… not found on Earth, shall we say? It should be able to handle the demand, even if we have to filter it to make it compatible.”

Finch and Reese exchanged glances. Finch cleared his throat. “Pardon my skepticism but… I think I’d like to know what we’re going to brainwash the population of the planet into believing.”

“Well, it seems to me that the effect of the last application is already wearing off, for some people at least. But I’m worried that it’s still going to take too long, or never fully fade, and that could be dangerous, to everyone. And as I told the TRUST goon, we can’t just issue the opposite command – believe in aliens. I was serious about those think-tank studies I’ve seen. Make everyone on the planet believe in aliens, and true chaos will ensue. Governments would collapse, economies crumble, societies de-stabilize, hundreds of thousands could die. No. We have to be more subtle. So we’re going to program it to say… ‘the existence of aliens is a matter for physical proof. Use your own judgment.’ That should take care of it.”

The other two considered it, and reluctantly agreed.

“Why do I keep thinking of that short story, ‘The Monkey’s Paw’?” Reese mused aloud. “Three wishes destined to go wrong?”

Dr. Jackson winced. “You had to say that, didn’t you? I just hope you haven’t jinxed us.”

Å

It was dark, and Reese had made a couple of runs for fast food meals, coffee and drinks, and brought a lonely Bear with him to the new offices, when Finch and Dr. Jackson finally raised their heads and said, “I think we’ve got it.”

“Are you sure? Because I gotta tell ya, I’m not in any hurry to have an alien device fry my brain… again.”

“You shouldn’t notice any difference, either you or Harold,” Daniel assured him. “Unless you’ve had prior contact with aliens, that is, and if you did, it must have been pretty minor if you haven’t noticed any memory issues in the past month. Me, on the other hand… you did bring the heavy duty Tylenol, I hope?”

“Right there next to the coffee, Dr. Jackson.”

“As far as I can tell, this thing has messed up my memories of the last fifteen years of my life, so I expect having them back will be pretty… um… traumatic. I may even pass out. Just so you know. And once my colleagues are fully compos mentis, they may even be able to find us. They have the means to zero right in on this naquadah generator. So you’ll need to clear out pretty fast. And are we ready to follow it up with the power charge to burn out the crystals?”

“You sure you want to do that?” Reese warned. “What if this thing doesn’t work first time out of the gate? Won’t you want a second go to try and fix things?”

“Actually, John, your Monkey’s Paw analogy has me spooked. If this doesn’t work as planned, I don’t think I want to do anything to make it worse, and that’s more likely to happen than anything else. Better to just fry the thing and make it impossible for anyone to use again. Right, Harold?”

“I think it’s for the best,” Harold agreed. “There’s no one, on this planet, who can be trusted with a machine of this power. I know that only too well. And the risks of it getting into the wrong hands, official or not… well. Best we just… turn it into a really, really, old paper-weight.”

Daniel helped John and Harold clean up the space, pack up what couldn’t be left behind, which amounted to all evidence that Reese or Finch had ever been there, and prepare count-downs for the two activations: the first for the new internet immersion message, the second direct to the power and control crystals of the device, to overload and fry them beyond repair. On one of his meal forays, John had picked up a burner cell phone which was also programmed for a count-down to activate, to dial Daniel’s friend Jack to come and pick up the Arc, naquadah generator, TRUST laptops and paraphernalia, and… of course… Daniel.

“Oh, wait!” Daniel blurted out just before they threw the switch that would set it all in motion, like a Rube Goldberg device… freezing them all in place. “This building! They can’t trace it back to you guys, can they?”

“Oh!” Finch gasped in relief that it was nothing more serious, wiping with his handkerchief to blot the cold sweat from his brow. “No. The ownership of this building is a series of shell corporations that, ultimately, can be traced to a dummy account belonging to a corrupt police lieutenant named Stills who… disappeared… more than a year ago. All related paperwork eventually finds its way to a post box in a shop with a security system which has, regrettably, been broken for over a year. No, we’re clean on this one, and I’ll wipe all digital evidence of our footprint once we leave.”

“Okay, then… thanks again, to both of you, for all of your help. And… for accepting the truth in the teeth of all belief otherwise.”

Reese gave the archeologist an odd look. “Actually, Dr. Jackson, I think what we believed in was you, not the aliens.”

Daniel grinned at that, a full-on dimpled, sparkling grin. Yeah, Reese acknowledged, more like three quarters of the Universe would want into this guy’s pants, and the rest just hadn’t met him yet.

“Good luck, Dr. Jackson,” Finch added, “I don’t expect we’ll be meeting again after this. Take care of yourself.”

“And you two. Okay. We ready?”

“As we’ll ever be…”

Å

Okay, Jack groaned as he tried to pick himself up off the floor of the New York City offices of HomeWorld Sec, *that* was a kick in the gut. And he was stupidly familiar with exactly how that felt.

Another dozen or so people in the office were also laid out on the carpeted floor, some still passed out, some groaning and dizzy, with others groping blindly for headache medication and water glasses. 

“What the hell just happened?” he demanded, struggling once again to sit up. And then it all came flooding back to him… the past fifteen years of his life, racing by him in all the gaudy colors of intergalactic adventure. It knocked him back prone for a breathless moment, the wind knocked right out of him. And then he abruptly got it back again. And this time, sheer force of an indomitable will had him back on his feet. 

“For crying out loud! Someone get me Colonel Carter on the Hammond! Now! I want her to scan the planet for a loose naquadah generator, starting with NYC, and I want it done yesterday! Mitchell, get your ass off the floor! If that was something Daniel did, and I’m betting the ranch it *was* Daniel, then he should be calling in any minute! I want you and a full team ready to beam to his location. Got it?”

Someone called out a report from Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado Springs. Almost the entire complement of personnel of the SGC had just passed out from some kind of… 

“Yeah, yeah, they’ll wake up as soon as they remember who and what they really are. Make sure they check out Teal’c, Vala, Nyan… the other expats at the Mountain. They’ll be hit the worst. Ferretti and the old-guard too, I imagine… why the hell wasn’t our off-word crews affected by this thing, whatever it was?”

“No idea sir…”

Mitchell called out, “Sir! I got Daniel. He’s asking for pick-up. Left the cell line open to track him. It’s a recorded message, though…”

“Go! Get him.”

Mitchell and a team of Marines disappeared in a flash of light. Then a call direct to O’Neill’s private cell came in from Mitchell. “Think you better see this for yourself, sir.”

“Daniel?”

“He’s out like a light, but life signs are good. Not dead this time, sir. But… we’ve got the Arc of Truth and a naquadah generator here, sir. He must have got them from the TRUST cell.”

O’Neill groaned, feeling the pounding of the massive migraine he still bore from his waking up. 

“The Arc of Truth. Of course. It all makes sense now. And Daniel is *sooo* going to be giving us all the full ‘told-you-so’ lecture, like, for *years*...” 

Å

The first time Daniel opened his eyes, the harsh infirmary lights stabbed him to the core and he cried out from the pain of it. Even after the lights were turned low, he hardly dared try that again until the IV attached to his arm delivered the really good, kind drugs to soften the blow.

“Finally,” grumped a familiar voice at his bedside. “Only took you two whole days to wake up. According to the docs, it’s because you’ve been more involved with aliens than anyone.”

“Teal’c? Vala? The others?”

“Teal’c bounced back pretty fast. Vala’s still sleeping it off. We’ve been getting reports from all over the world of people keeling over with sudden seizures… we gathered most of them up in the net before they could do any more damage. TRUST, mostly. A few Lucian Alliance. Martin Lloyd. Cassie, Loren and Jon are fine. Young enough to roll with it. I think they’d begun to shake it off before your little experiment, so they were only a bit dizzy. And really relieved that they weren’t all going crazy or something. So. Thanks for that.”

“Yeah well, I was kinda hanging by a thread myself.”

“So. You pulled out another one, Danny Boy. Good one.”

“Oh! Sam! The Hammond, the other ships. We completely forgot about Sam!”

“Yeah, she was a tad miffed about that, too. But all of our memories of her were tied in with aliens, and her current where-abouts involved an interstellar space ship, so… Not surprising she was one of the memories we had to suppress. The ships were all on patrol, when the Alpha gate reported loosing contact with Earth. The SGC automatic security system shut down the gate, no one remembered how to turn it back on… no one listened on the off-world channels… we weren’t answering our calls… Sam came back, tried to contact us, decided to monitor the situation from orbit. One of her communications guys tried to tap into the Earth satellites, got a shot of whatever the Arc did… the result was apparently pretty severe. The guy was pretty psychotic for a while. Carter gave the order to hold back and monitor the situation after that without trying to directly contact anyone. She could see the Earth wasn’t in any physical danger… didn’t dare send anyone down or try to beam them up… all she could really do was watch and wait and try… *very* carefully… to analyze the internet messages that screwed with us. I think she just about had it figured out when you sent through your little program correction. So she’s extra pissed with you, again, for beating her to the punch. Oh, and, when she had a look at what was left of the big Ancient box, seems it was totally fried. Just a big fancy chest now, suitable for storing granny’s quilts.”

Daniel blinked at him, those three little lines of consternation folding between his brows. 

“So. Let’s just get this all out of the way and go on from here, okay? Yes, you were right about the Arc of Truth being too damned dangerous to mess with or leave lying around where just anyone could walk off with it. Ouch. Hank will be in later to give you his own apologies for that one. And yes, you were right that there was something seriously wrong with everyone connected with the SGC, but especially Teal’c and Vala and Nyan. And you were right, all our memories were messed with, severely. And you were right to take off, shake us all, leave the reservation, to try and sort it out on your own, *even though* you deliberately placed yourself in deadly peril, *again*, and you know how much I hate it when you do that. But, you were right, none of us were going to help you or even believe you on our own. So… yeah, you were right, about all of it, and you did good work. The President, who also had dizzy spells when you undid the voodoo on us, by the way, sends his regards and thanks as well. He says he knew all along you were right, and not crazy from one too many blows to the head like the rest of us all thought. But I figure he’s just being a politician about that. 

“And before you say anything, let me just say… can I promise we’ll believe you in future? Hell no. This is us, the best we can be, and we just aren’t built to blindly believe anyone about anything. So you’ll keep thinking outside the box everyone else is trapped in, and you’ll keep having to kick a hole in the box and haul us all out by the ears to your side. I’m sorry as hell, Daniel, but that’s just the way it is. It’s the way it’s always been. I just hope you can keep on forgiving us for being stupid short-sighted idiots.”

Daniel could only smile wanly at his friend. “Well, I can this time, anyway.”

“Good. Glad to hear it. Now, about those two friends of yours… the little guy in the suit and glasses who hit on you in the museum and doesn’t seem to have an identity… at all… and the big guy in the suit who took out a whole nest of TRUST jaffa and goa’uld with an AK47, a set of brass knuckles and a shit load of bad attitude…”

“No, Jack.”

“Daniel…”

“No, Jack. Surely I have enough credit at the moment to get you to listen to me, for just this once.”

“Ouch. That hurts.”

“It’s meant to. John and Harold are no threat to you. None at all. Leave them alone.”

“But they know stuff…”

“They’ll never tell.”

“You that sure?”

“Yes.”

“Can you at least tell me how you know?”

“No. It’s a gut thing.”

“But… you gotta give me something here, Daniel…”

“No, I don’t.”

“But… how do you know them? Where did you meet? Did you know them from before today? How the hell did they get dragged into this mess in the first place?”

“Jack. Stop. Just for a minute. And listen to me. Okay?”

“Well… okay. If I have to, But just for a minute.”

“Okay then. Today I was on my own. Truly on my own, with no one at all in my corner, because everyone I knew was under alien influence. Right? And then, suddenly, there were two men coming to help me, interested third parties, just because they wanted to warn me. And they trusted me, believed in me, and didn’t really give a damn about the whole – aliens yes or no – thing. So when the chips were down and my back was against the wall, they were there, and without them, we’d all be going quietly mad in small padded rooms. And take it from me, that is no fun at all. So leave them alone. Okay?”

Jack gave a heavy sigh. “Okay. Put it like that… fine.”

Å

“I think your old friend Jack O’Neill just sent us a message,” Finch offered when John came in one morning about a week after the events around the Arc of Truth. He tilted his laptop in John’s direction, to show a security camera view of Arlington Cemetery. In the cenotaph section of the gardens, for military declared KIA with no physical remains, a bouquet of flowers had been laid before the marker for one Major John… last name obscured by the deep red roses and baby’s breath. The tag on the bouquet read, ‘I owe you one, buddy.’

John nodded slowly. “If he managed to get even one shot of my face in any security camera… he’d recognize me at once. Think he’ll try and track us down?”

“He hasn’t made any attempts so far. I’d know. I think Dr. Jackson may have… talked him out of it.”

John had his doubts. “That doesn’t entirely jive with my memory of the man. He was a hard ass who wouldn’t take anything on blind faith.”

“Well, you also know Dr. Jackson.”

Okay, John had to grant Finch that one. If anyone could get around Jack O’Neill, it would be Daniel Jackson. “One thing is certain. It’s better to have him as a friend than an enemy. And if he thinks he owes us one… That can only be good for us.”

Å

Janet, Shifu and Skarra finally tracked him down in a government bunker in Montana, floating around a forest of servers in the massive underground complex.

Merlin had the grace to look a little guilty at being so caught out.

“You mess with the Machine, and someone is going to smell a rat,” Janet Fraiser told him severely, with her patented doctor’s ‘big pointy objects aimed at your butt’ glare.

“I’m not *messing* with it…” Merlin whined. Then he brightened as he gestured. “But it is a marvel, is it not! That little man in the glasses is definitely a genius of the highest order! This… Machine… it is next thing to a living consciousness! Very nearly a Soul.”

Shifu mused, “It is truly said that if you can no longer tell the difference between one thing and another, then… perhaps there is no difference.”

Skarra gave one of the servers a pat. “It was very helpful in this case, at least. Like a faithful mastage, eager to please. Daniel would have been lost without the aid of Harold and John. Without the Truth, without his true beliefs, he was most truly lost.”

“And that damned Ark would have caused untold havoc if Daniel hadn’t burned it out,” Janet granted. “But this Machine is almost as bad, in the wrong hands. And I’m not convinced your hands are the right ones, Merlin. So give. What are you doing here?”

“The Machine has been denied only one source of vital information to detect global threats, correct? This means it has been unable to identify the TRUST, Lucian Alliance and other off-world threats to Earth security. That’s why we had to feed it Daniel’s number on our own. A dangerous bit of meddling, safe enough though it was. The Machine is now wondering, even if no one else is, where that number came from. So… I… supplied it with the answer. Finding a rich source of data it was previously unaware of.” He held up his glowy insubstantial hands to halt an angry Janet’s objections in their tracks. “Along with all the necessary cautionary information. Eventually, the Machine would have found its way to the HomeWorld Security database on its own, but eventually might well have been too late. As ever, all the Machine can reveal is certain pertinent ID numbers. But these will be delivered, clandestinely, to a more reliable source more directly involved in such work, and therefore able to correctly discern the true nature of the threat, and better able to plan an appropriate response. Relevant, Irrelevant, and Other. All good, don’t you think? And not *really* meddling, as such, just… accelerating existing mechanisms already in place.”

“Hmm,” Janet hmmed. “We were allowed to provide Daniel with help because the Ark is unfinished Alteran business. No more. You’re getting *very* close to the line again, Merlin. Best you back off.”

“But you won’t undo what I’ve already done?”

“As you said, all you did was accelerate it a bit. Reversing may in fact delay the Machine, which would be an equally serious interference. So… no. Leave well enough alone.”

The four Ascended beings bowed to the Machine as to an ally, and faded to nothing, leaving the thousands of server towers to hum and click and calculate their way to the next set of numbers.

Å


End file.
